


The Care and Feeding of Stromanthe sanguinea: A Beginner’s Guide

by PepperVL



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, Wing Grooming, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL/pseuds/PepperVL
Summary: Nearly one year after the almost-apocalypse, Aziraphale is simply existing, holding on to hope that Crowley will return to him. When he discovers the plant he got for the demon is dying, he takes it on a tour of places he and Crowley frequented to convince it to live. Will it be enough to bring Crowley back to him?Written for the prompt:A house plant is dying, tell it why it needs to live.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 155
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	The Care and Feeding of Stromanthe sanguinea: A Beginner’s Guide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handlebarstiedtothestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlebarstiedtothestars/gifts).



> Way back in early September, handlebarstiedtothestars posted the following prompt on the GOBB Discord: _Not so much a fic prompt as a ficlet prompt, but this_ — _a house plant is dying, tell it why it needs to live_ — _is from a book of prompts I have and I love that I already know Crowley’s reaction. What would the angel’s be?_
> 
> I thought, “hey, that’s cute, I can write a short little ficlet from it and get something posted for this fandom.” It was gonna be under 5k. Then I swore it was gonna be under 10k. Then it was really honest-to-Someone going to be under 15k. 
> 
> 16.5k later, it turns out this prompt _is_ a full-fledged fic prompt when it’s in my hands. Someday, I will write something short. That day is not today.
> 
> Thanks to cassie-oh for the beta, SaerM for the Brit-pick, and TheOldAquarian for the summary help.

**London Soho – Day 350 Post-Crowley (21 August 2019 – 11 Months, 27 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale twisted his hands together as he leaned over to get a better look at the large plant sitting next to his sofa. When he’d brought it in a few months ago, the oblong leaves had been a brilliant green laced with a creamy white on top and a rosy pink so dark as to be almost red on the bottom. Now, the leaves drooped even as they tried to complete their nightly fold. Some had even lost their wonderful colors and were now edged in brown with spots growing in the center of some of them.

Aziraphale gently touched one leaf, frowning at its wilted state. “This won’t do at all. Crowley will be most upset if I give you to him in this condition, and you’re meant to be a pleasant surprise.” He clapped his hands together the way Gabriel did when he was trying to be encouraging. “Come on, buck up!”

The plant rustled its leaves slightly, which was honestly more than Aziraphale had expected of it given his absolutely abysmal attempt at encouragement. Crowley was the one who was good at plants, not him, but Crowley… wasn’t here. Aziraphale was just going to have to figure it out if he wanted to gift this plant to Crowley when he came back.

“Is that all you can do?” Aziraphale’s hand hovered over the leaves. “I would give you some assistance, but Crowley will notice if I use a miracle on you, and he doesn’t approve of miracles on plants. He says you need to do well on your own. I’m certain you can, just… oh, I wish you could tell me what you needed.”

The plant rustled again and Aziraphale got the impression that the plant wished it could tell him, too. “That’s all right,” he told it, “I’ll… look it up in a book! I’m sure there’s one on plants here somewhere. I’ll simply look up how to care for you and we’ll have you back in top condition in no time.” He stood and tugged his waistcoat into position. “Yes. That should work. I’ll get you feeling better, Crowley will come back, and everything will be tickety-boo. Now, a book on plants would be…”

As Aziraphale looked around the shop, one of the back shelves was quite surprised to find itself holding a thick book on plant care that included an entire section on prayer plants, including _Stromanthe sanguinea._ It didn’t at all fit with the misprinted Bibles on the rest of the shelf and had in fact squeezed into a spot that hadn’t been there when Aziraphale noticed the state of his plant, but he expected that there would be a book on plant care in his shop, and so there was.

He found the book—which was quite surprised to find itself in Aziraphale’s shop instead of Waterstones[1]—in short order and settled in with a mug of cocoa to read. He had a brief thought halfway through the relevant section that learning about all the things he’d done wrong might be more palatable with a glass of wine, but that made his gaze stray to the bottle and two glasses sitting on the side table, untouched and beginning to gather dust. The desire vanished. Cocoa would do just fine until Crowley… well, it would do just fine for now.

By the time he finished the section on the tricolor prayer plant, Aziraphale had realized it was practically a miracle the poor plant was still alive at all. It was in remarkably good condition considering that he’d first over and then under watered the poor thing. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but it had slipped from his mind as he’d buried himself in books, trying to pass the time. His bookshop was also far too dry for a tropical plant—humidity was horrible for old books—and apparently plants kept indoors needed plant food, which Crowley had never mentioned giving to his plants.

Not that they’d spent much time talking about Crowley’s plants. Aziraphale hadn’t even known about them until he’d spent the night after Armageddon didn’t happen at Crowley’s flat. The plants hadn’t come up in the days after, and then… well, it was only fifteen days shy of a year since Aziraphale had last seen Crowley. In four days, it would be a year since the world was supposed to have ended. The world was still ticking along, though it had been nearly ten months since Aziraphale had enjoyed it. The last time he’d ventured out of the shop, he’d gotten the plant.

Aziraphale closed the book with a snap and looked down at the bedraggled plant. “Well, it seems I have been treating you rather poorly. I do hope you’ll forgive me. The only other time I took care of plants I had Crowley to advise me.” He stuck his finger in the soil and used a small miracle to adjust the water and nutrient level in the soil. Perhaps it was cheating, but the poor plant was going to die if he didn’t do _something_. Crowley could get upset with him for using miracles adjacent to the plant if he wanted, just so long as he came back to get upset about it.

When the moisture and nutrient level in the soil were correct, Aziraphale sat back and miracled a ball of humid air around the plant and positioned it so that the humidity wouldn’t touch any of his books and the plant would get the right amount of sun in the morning. “There. You’ll feel better in no time. You’ll look gorgeous when Crowley gets back and you’ll make all his other plants jealous.”

Aziraphale settled back on the sofa. “You’ll like it at Crowley’s. He’s so much better at taking care of plants than I am. All of his plants are so lush and verdant.” He pressed his lips together as he ran a finger over a wilting leaf. Even with the right conditions, he was uncertain whether he’d be able to nurse this plant back to the level of health Crowley would want without using a miracle. Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d stuck to the _no miracles on plants_ rule for the ones in Crowley’s flat.

**London Mayfair – Day 14 Post-Crowley (19 September 2018 – 25 Days Post-Failed Apocalypse)**

Aziraphale could sense the occult protections suffusing Crowley’s flat from three blocks away. He slowed, questioning whether this was _actually_ a good idea, but then he remembered that Crowley wouldn’t be—that Crowley _couldn’t_ be there and he had to go in if he was going to make sure everything would be waiting for Crowley when he returned. By the time Aziraphale reached the front door, it was clear the wards recognized him, and they let him into first the building and then the flat itself without requiring that he use even a single miracle.

He walked through the flat slowly, hoping against hope that he’d been wrong and Crowley would come out of one of the other rooms and ask him what the Heaven he was doing there. He didn’t. The further Aziraphale went into the flat, the more he noticed how absolutely nothing had changed since the morning after Armageddon didn’t happen, the more like a mausoleum it felt. The feeling was appropriate he supposed, though there weren’t any bodies here[2]—the plants were still alive, thankfully. They looked a bit worse for the wear after a week of neglect, but they were resilient and were holding on for Crowley.[3]

“I am sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” Aziraphale told the plants as he entered their room. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but since it’s taking Crowley longer than I hoped to return, I’m just going to fix you up and make sure you’re all right until he gets back. We wouldn’t want him upset because you’re not in top form, would we?”

The plants rustled with palpable fear that didn’t dissipate until Aziraphale miracled them all back into the condition they’d been in when he’d last stayed there, the night before their trials. Assured that the plants were once more the most lush and verdant in all of London, he walked through the rest of the flat, making sure everything was turned off, put away, and otherwise ready to be unused for however long it took Crowley to return.

It didn’t take long. 

When he was done, Aziraphale paused in the doorway and performed one final miracle, preserving the flat and everything in it exactly as it was. Until Crowley returned, dust would not settle, plants would neither grow nor wilt, and neighbors wouldn’t notice anything amiss. That done, Aziraphale stepped into the hall and shut the flat door. He felt the occult defenses knit closed once more behind him and knew that when Crowley returned, he’d find everything precisely how he left it.

**London Soho – Day 350 Post-Crowley (21 August 2019 – 11 Months, 27 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

Aziraphale stroked his fingers over the leaf again, sending a pulse of power into the plant. “Don’t tell Crowley, all right?”

The plant was too busy being surprised by its unexpected return to health to so much as rustle its leaves in response. Aziraphale took the lack of response for uncertainty. “Don’t worry, if he finds out, I will simply tell him it’s his fault for being gone so long. If he doesn’t want me to use miracles on plants, he shouldn’t leave like this.” He nodded as though that decided everything, took another sip of his cocoa,[4] opened his book, and settled in to read, confident the plant would be just fine.

Several hours later, when the sun shining in through the skylight caught his attention, Aziraphale looked up from his book to see that he’d been wrong. The plant drooped despite Aziraphale’s miracle and the sun hitting it just perfectly. It appeared to be making an attempt at least; its leaves, now free of spots, were turned sluggishly toward the sun, the top ones barely lifting off those on the bottom. Aziraphale set aside his mug of cocoa,[5] closed the book, and leaned in close, extending his senses. The plant was healthy—his miracle last night had seen to that—but it seemed to have entirely given up on living.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Aziraphale circled the plant, peering at it from all angles as he fretted. “I know it must have been a bit of a shock, really, to go from that sorry state I’d let you get into to full health, but I really must ask that you roll with it, as they say. I need you to be healthy for Crowley, and he’ll be back any day now. I’m sure of it. It’s– well, it’s a rather momentous day on Sunday, and he wouldn’t simply not come. He will find a way to get a message to me, at least.”

Aziraphale’s smile felt wrong—brittle and strained—but he held it out of sheer stubbornness. The plant might not be able to see, but Aziraphale had read once that it was important to smile while speaking on the phone because the listener could hear the smile in the speaker’s voice. He didn’t know if the same idea applied when speaking to plants, but he didn’t want to risk the plant being able to tell he wasn’t feeling optimistic.

The idea that the plant might be able to tell his smile was desperate and forced never occurred to him.[6]

The plant rustled one leaf listlessly. “Can’t be bothered,” it seemed to say, and Aziraphale felt his heart crack.

“Please,” he said, wringing his hands together as he desperately tried to think of what he could say to convince a plant that life was worth living. “Crowley will be back soon and he’ll take so much better care of you than I have. You’ll like living with him, I promise. I know you don’t know him, but… Oh! I could tell you about him. Even better, I could _show_ you. Not show you him, obviously, he’s not here, but I’ll show you the places we go and the things we’ve done—well, the local ones, anyway—and by the time he gets back, you’ll feel as though you know him!”

The plant predictably didn’t respond, but it did look _slightly_ less like it was planning on literally wilting away in the next few moments. There was a strand of hope there and Aziraphale grabbed onto it, a falling angel trying desperately to hold onto Grace for just a moment longer. He clapped his hands together. “So! Where should we start?” He beamed at the plant—his first real smile in longer than he cared to think about—as he bustled around the shop, gathering his coat and miracling some burlap to wrap the pot in. When he was done, he hefted the rather too large to carry comfortably plant in his arms and stepped through the bookshop door for the first time in months.

**London Chelsea – Day 58 Post Crowley (2 November 2018 – 2 Months, 8 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

Aziraphale closed the door to the bookshop carefully, checking that the miracle he’d put on it a week ago to make sure it escaped humans’ notice still held. He didn’t lock it; there was no need with the miracle and he wanted as few barriers as possible in place when Crowley returned. Given the way things had ended with their respective employers, it was possible a locked door would be one thing too much for Crowley if—when—he returned.

He’d been leaving less and less over the past two months, wanting to be there when Crowley got back, but life went on outside the bookshop and Aziraphale had not yet completely disconnected himself from it. He kept hoping he wouldn’t have to, but with every passing day it became more likely that Crowley would need assistance when he returned, so Aziraphale was determined to be ready. Today’s event was the last appointment in his diary he couldn't easily clear. The Antiquarian Booksellers Association Chelsea Rare Book Fair was one of his favorites; his fellow book dealers and collectors would notice if he missed it. While there, he could tell his acquaintances in the Antiquarian Booksellers Association that he would be… unavailable for some time, though he might occasionally reach out via telephone or computer.

(He’d upgraded the antiquated computer in the bookshop already. Hell had often contacted Crowley through his electronics and while Aziraphale wasn’t willing to go so far as to have a television in the bookshop, he _had_ purchased a sleek laptop in red and black along with an external monitor, keyboard, and mouse so he could use it more easily. The whole thing was very much not his style, but it was Crowley’s, and Aziraphale had thought it would perhaps be easier for Crowley to contact him on new hardware. He’d been wary of using it after the saleswoman had shown him all the bells and whistles, but when he’d gotten it set up in the shop it had, to his delight, worked much the same as his old computer, if a bit faster. He’d conceded that perhaps Crowley had been right about upgrading.)

Aziraphale wasn’t a member of the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association for a variety of reasons,[7] but he did usually appreciate their book fairs. They were an opportunity to buy books he wanted and he enjoyed catching up with his fellow bibliophiles, but today he was dreading it. They would ask about his “friend” with a tone that implied the sort of relationship he and Crowley had only just begun when—

Aziraphale choked on even the thought of what had happened as he navigated public transportation to the fair. In the past, he’d often had Crowley drop him off, especially over the past decade as they’d collaborated to raise Warlock, but Aziraphale had miracled the Bentley into secure storage and Crowley was currently in Hell.

At least, Aziraphale _hoped_ he was in Hell. 

If he wasn’t... well, that wasn’t a thought that bore repeating. Crowley was in Hell. At some point he’d manage to get out again and things would be good. They would pick up where they left off. Or not. It didn’t particularly matter to Aziraphale[8] as long as the Crowley-getting-out-of-Hell-again part happened.

Despite having arrived late, the bus miraculously got Aziraphale to his stop early and he walked the remaining distance quickly, arriving at the fair just as the doors were opening. He paused for a moment to steel himself for the ordeal ahead, straightening his waistcoat and taking a few centering breaths. 

His plan was to browse, keeping to himself as he worked up the nerve to have a conversation with a few of the Association’s chattier members. They’d take care of spreading news of his absence around and he could hurry back to the shop to wait for Crowley. It was a good plan, he thought, simple, elegant. The sort of plan Crowley would have been bored to tears by, were he around to listen to it. 

Then, as is the way with most plans, it fell apart before it had the chance to be implemented. Aziraphale had barely set foot in the building when he was accosted by Reginald Wurtzer, one of the Association members interested in misprinted Bibles. He was known for going after what he wanted like a dog after a bone and had snatched up prizes just before Aziraphale got his hands on them more than once. That would have been tolerable—Aziraphale knew where the books were, Reginald took good care of them, and Aziraphale and his bookshop would be around long after Reginald Wurtzer had passed on, after all—but the man had to brag about it every time he saw Aziraphale.

As an angel, Aziraphale was fundamentally incapable of hate. The emotion he felt when Reginald Wurtzer clasped him on the shoulder came so close to it, however, that it would have been impossible to slide even a single piece of India paper between them.

“Fell!” Reginald boomed far too loudly for his demeanor to have even a passing acquaintance with good manners. “Didn’t expect to see you here, old boy! I didn’t hear your friend’s ridiculous car come flying up to the kerb! Did he trade it in for something else, or did he finally learn how to drive?”

“Reginald.” Aziraphale smiled the same way he usually smiled at Gabriel as he pried Reginald’s hand off his shoulder. “Crowley is indisposed today, so I took the bus.” His smile felt more brittle with every word. “I’m sure you’ll have the honor of seeing his wonderful car next year. It is a shame you only ever see it when he drops me off and picks me up. He really is a fantastic[9] driver.”

“ _Indisposed_ , hmm? Is _that_ why he hasn’t been seen around your shop in months?” Reginald leaned in close as if to share a secret. “I heard that you haven’t been around much because he finally ditched you.”

Aziraphale gasped, though it lacked his usual dramatic flair. “Who said that?”

“You know how rumors are.” Reginald smiled in a way that reminded Aziraphale of a hyena circling prey. “Is it true? Did he leave you for someone,” His gaze traveled up and down Aziraphale’s body, “… better? You had to know your money wasn’t going to keep him around forever.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, more outraged on Crowley’s behalf than his own. “I am quite certain I have no idea what you’re talking about. Crowley has simply been tied up at his Head Office recently and has been unable to visit. Furthermore, you have the wrong impression about our relationship. We are friends and I most certainly do not pay him for that!” He tugged his waistcoat straight as he looked Reginald in the eyes. “The very idea!”

“You protest too much, Fell, but have it your way. I’m sure you’ll prove me wrong at the next event,” Reginald sneered, his tone clearly indicating he thought the exact opposite.

Panic pushed its way through Aziraphale’s gut as he forced himself not to blink. Reginald would pounce on any sign of weakness, so Aziraphale had to show none. “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the next fair,” he said with a casualness he did not feel. “I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of travel coming up myself. I only stopped by to let everyone know the shop is likely to be closed if they stop by, though I will be reachable by electronic mail.” He smiled rather insincerely at Reginald. “Would you be so kind as to spread that news around for me? I wouldn’t want the rumors to get out of hand.” He imbued his words with just enough divine power to ensure that Reginald would think twice before spreading any unsavory rumors around. “I know you’re the right man for the job.”

Reginald blinked, probably surprised by Aziraphale’s faith in him, then rallied. “Damn right I am. I’ll let everyone know not to worry when you’re shop’s closed—not that we ever do with your hours!”

He laughed and Aziraphale responded with a nervous smile. “Quite right. Nevertheless, I do appreciate your assistance.” He nodded at Reginald and quickly hurried out of the building before the other man could reply, not caring at all that he hadn’t looked at a single book.

Determination carried Aziraphale all the way back to Soho, a trip that took considerably longer by bus than it ever had in the Bentley. By the time he stopped off the bus into familiar streets, Aziraphale had resolved to never complain about Crowley’s driving again. He wouldn’t have been gone nearly as long if Crowley had driven him this morning.

Of course, he wouldn’t have been worried about being gone so long if Crowley had driven him because there would’ve been no need to hurry back to wait for him.

With those thoughts circling in his head, Aziraphale walked the last few blocks to his shop. Halfway there, he passed the new storefront he’d seen on his way to the shop early that morning. He’d hardly noticed it then, but it was open now and he could see a riot of green through the windows.

Unbidden, Aziraphale’s feet carried him through the door. He found himself in a room that reminded him of the one in Crowley’s flat—full of luxuriously verdant[10] plants of nearly every variety. Aziraphale appreciated plants as he appreciated all of God’s creations, but he’d never had a knack for them, not even when he’d been the Dowling’s gardener. These, however, called to him. There was one, just inside the door, that leaned toward him as he passed, and all he could think was that Crowley would love it, that he had to get it for Crowley.

He was halfway to the counter when he remembered there was no point. The knowledge hit like the punch Sandalphon had landed just before Armageddon and Aziraphale physically staggered, throwing one hand out to steady himself on whatever was nearby

He’d expected a shelf or perhaps a plant. What he found was a person. His hand encountered cloth and he pulled it back immediately, pressing it to his chest as he turned to see a red-faced young woman. “Oh! I apologize, my dear. I didn’t realize you were there. I do hope you will forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” the woman mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. “I snuck up on you. Can I help you with something?”

Aziraphale had fully intended to make his excuses and leave, but the young woman had deep red curls and green eyes so pale they were almost yellow. She looked nothing like Crowley, especially stammering the way she was, yet Aziraphale saw red hair and almost yellow eyes and immediately started making connections he knew deep down weren’t real. Still, it ignited hope in him—maybe this was a sign from Above[11]—that Crowley would be back soon. Perhaps a Higher Power had guided him to this shop, to that plant, to remind him not to lose faith. God had tacitly approved of them stopping the apocalypse, after all. Surely She would see to it that they were both around to enjoy the Earth’s continued existence.

Deep within himself, Aziraphale knew that was patently untrue, but the idea was so appealing that he instantly latched onto it. This was a sign. If he brought the plant to the bookshop, he _would_ be able to give it to Crowley when Crowley returned. Aziraphale squashed down any doubts, not even allowing them to cross his mind as he focused on that one thought.

Crowley would return. If Aziraphale got the plant for him, he would have to. It would be rude for him not to accept Aziraphale’s gift, after all. Crowley might be a demon, but he wasn’t rude to anyone who didn’t deserve it. Aziraphale didn’t deserve it, so if he bought the plant for Crowley, Crowley would come back.

With that thought firmly in his head, Aziraphale smiled—the closest he’d gotten to the genuine thing since Crowley discorporated—and said, “Yes, I believe you can. I would like to purchase that plant over there.”

**The Ritz, London – Day 351 Post-Crowley (22 August 2019 – 11 Months, 28 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

Aziraphale did his best to smile at the young woman who had shown him to his table at the Ritz, though he was certain it didn’t come out right. It _felt_ more like a grimace than anything, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it looked that way as well. “Thank you,” he said as he carefully set the plant down on the table and slid into the indicated chair.

“Can I… take the plant somewhere for you?” the young woman asked carefully. It was clear she was trying not to offend. “We would be happy to hold it at the desk while you dine.”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale pulled the plant closer, his heartbeat ticking up a notch at the mere idea of letting it out of his sight. “It’s, ah, delicate. I’d best keep it with me.” He tried to make his smile a little more genuine, as though someone having a large plant on their table at the Ritz was something she should have seen every day.

“If you’re certain,” she said, not sounding at all like she was.

“Quite.” Aziraphale used a tiny miracle to get her to ease her mind. Another time, he might have been able to convince her without using the miracle, but today he barely had it in him to miracle her acceptance. Taking the plant on the Number 19 bus and then to the bandstand at Battersea Park had been… draining, to say the least. He’d been tempted to simply taxi back to the bookshop after dining and to take the plant to the Ritz and St. James Park and the British Museum Café some other time, but he knew that if he went back now, he wouldn’t leave again unless—until _,_ it had to be _until_ —Crowley came back.

“Of course, sir.” She set the menu on the table next to him. “Your server will be around momentarily.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale managed to keep the false smile on his face until she walked away. The moment she was gone, he dropped the smile and sighed, slumping down far more than he generally did when sober. “I’m sorry,” he said to the plant as he stroked one finger over the closest leaf. “This has been harder than I anticipated.”

The leaf he was touching folded up in the gesture that gave the plant its name and a tiny real smile flickered on Aziraphale’s face. “Thank you,” he told it as he pulled his finger back. “I appreciate the support.”

The leaf opened once more.. Aziraphale moved the pot so he’d be able to eat and took a deep breath. Right. It was time to focus on what he’d come here for. He straightened his spine, pushed his shoulders back, and wiggled a little until he was settled in his customary posture rather than the depressed slump he’d adopted. “That’s better.”

He put his napkin on his lap and turned the plant slightly on the table. “Now then. This is the Ritz, as I’m sure you have gathered by now. Crowley and I ate here almost a year ago now, after we swapped bodies and tricked Heaven and Hell into thinking we couldn’t be killed. Pretending to be Crowley was quite fun.”

Hell had been awful of course. It was _literally_ Hell, but Aziraphale had enjoyed asking for a rubber duck and making Michael miracle up a towel. “We came here afterward to celebrate. We’d always talked about dining here. Well, not _always_ —we’ve been around quite a bit longer than the Ritz—but it had come up.”

The plant didn’t need to know it had come up exactly once. Aziraphale had almost suggested it several times, but that night in 1967 had given it significance in his mind. Even though he and Crowley had dined at the Ritz prior to tricking their former employers, it had always been Crowley who invited Aziraphale, like he had while convincing Aziraphale to help him stop the apocalypse. Aziraphale asking Crowley to accompany him to the Ritz would have been saying he was ready to move forward with things it wasn’t safe to express until after they’d broken free from Heaven and Hell.

“I finally suggested we come here after we tricked everyone and, well. It was quite a scrummy meal. I immediately knew I would want to come back and we’d planned to, but…” He cleared his throat. “It never seemed right without Crowley.” The server came by then and Aziraphale ordered exactly the same thing he’d gotten that first time, minus the champagne. Over the millennia, he’d gotten into the habit of primarily drinking with Crowley and he hadn’t drunk any alcohol since… well. Regardless, champagne would’ve felt far too celebratory today.

When the server left, Aziraphale turned back to the plant. “I know I could’ve come back at any time, and I could, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten out of the habit of eating this past year. It’s not nearly as enjoyable without company.”

He’d always enjoyed food, all the way back to the Garden, but it had rather lost its appeal when he’d planned to have Crowley in for drinks and instead watched him discorporate. At first, he’d been too upset to eat, and then, when Crowley didn’t come back right away, too worried. By the time the horrible gnawing in his stomach had dulled to a persistent knot that he’d likely be able to eat around, he’d been out of the habit. If he hadn’t promised the plant that he’d tell it all about Crowley, he wouldn’t be eating today.

Honestly, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to make himself, no matter how rude it would be to order lunch and not eat a single bite. He’d just told the plant so when his order arrived and all doubt vanished. “Oh. Oh my.” Aziraphale beamed at his server. “This smells simply delightful.” When the server left, he turned to the plant. “I do hope you won’t mind if I eat in front of you.” The same leaf from before folded and opened, and Aziraphale dug in.

The first bite on his tongue was simply divine.[12] The meat was fantastically tender and the flavors mingled in a way that warmed him from the inside out. There were only two sensations he could possibly compare it to; basking in Her Grace and the warmth he’d felt nearly a year ago when he and Crowley held hands in this very restaurant.

**The Ritz, London – 26 August 2018 – 1 Day Post Failed Apocalypse**

“And _then_ ,” Aziraphale said, leaning even closer to Crowley, “I ended up on television! In America! They were all very upset. I think they were, oh, what’s the term for it? On the wind!”

“On _air_ ,” Crowley corrected, his eyebrows sliding up toward his hairline. “You mean it was a live broadcast?”

“Yes, that’s it. They were on air when I found the… well, I suppose he was their preacher, though there wasn’t anyone there worshiping. It was only the studio workers.”

“Ah, a televangelist.” Crowley nodded knowingly. “Those are one of ours, actually. Well, one of Hell’s. They mostly encourage humans to do harm in Her name.”

“And I suppose you thought that was a good idea.”

“Well, I did at the time. It was supposed to be lots of individuals getting angry at their neighbors, not _this_ mess it’s turned into.” He waved his hand vaguely, almost knocking over his mostly empty champagne flute.

“Ah.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, then decided it wasn’t worth pursuing and pushed the thought and his empty lunch plate away. “I apologized, of course, but they were all very upset, especially when I corrected the preacher.”

“Corrected him?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale poured more champagne into both their flutes. “He was going on about the end of days and talking about how angels were going to snatch up all the faithful humans before the war started. As if we’d have time for that!”

“It’d be interesting to see you try,” Crowley mused. “How many people would you each have to grab, do you think?”

“I really couldn’t say.” Aziraphale took a sip of his champagne as he looked away. “Too many to be convenient. There are ten million angels and seven billion humans. Even if only a small fraction of them are truly faithful, it would be a lot of work.”

“And you don’t want to do that right before a battle.”

“Well, no! It would give Hell an unfair advantage!”

“Hell loves unfair advantages, angel.” Crowley caught their server’s eye and indicated they were ready to look at dessert. “You said it yourself— my trial was rigged. They tried to rig the war too. They may have even started the rumors.”

“Then I suppose it’s doubly good they’re wrong. Though, this preacher was also convinced Heaven would win the war. I corrected him on that front too. I doubt Gabriel will be best pleased when he learns I told humans Heaven only had a fifty-fifty chance of winning.”

“ _Gabriel_ doesn’t get to have an opinion on what you do anymore. Though, I thought you were convinced Heaven was going to win too. That’s what you said eleven years ago.”

The server came by then and Aziraphale selected a dessert before turning back to Crowley. “I believed Heaven _should_ win and convinced myself that was enough to ensure it. I also believed it would be a wonderful thing if Heaven won and had convinced myself we couldn’t possibly be friends.” He put his hand over Crowley’s where it rested on the table. “I’ve since realized all of that was wrong. It would be horrible for everyone if either Heaven _or_ Hell won and you are far more than a friend. As you said— we’re on our own side now.”

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his glasses and he stared at Aziraphale’s hand, holding his entire body preternaturally still as if he were afraid even breathing would scare Aziraphale away. “I… ah… well… er…”

Aziraphale carefully slipped his fingers between Crowley’s and gently squeezed. He wasn’t letting go of Crowley’s hand until _Crowley_ pulled back or asked him to, no matter what else Crowley managed to say. Now even when dessert arrived. Aziraphale ate it one-handed, setting his fork down between bites so he could dab his napkin to his lips, and waited for Crowley to remember how to speak English.

He’d just taken the most decadent bite when Crowley made a strangled noise and said, “ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale swallowed, set down his fork, and wiped his mouth. “Yes, dear?”

Crowley managed another strangled noise. “Y-You can’t-You can’t just _say_ things like that, especially if you don’t mean them!”

“Say things like what?” Aziraphale knew what Crowley meant, of course, but as Crowley had recently pointed out, he was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing and he was going to revel in that.

“That we’re on _our side_.” Crowley downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “You’ve never agreed with me when I’ve said that.”

Aziraphale looked pointedly at their hands, then sighed. He hadn’t ever said it before, not even last night when he’d held Crowley’s hand on the bus that brought them back to London. “Yes. Well. I should have. We are on our own side. I went to Hell for you. I trusted you to go to Heaven for me. I know I’ve pushed you away in the past, but I won’t be doing that anymore.”

Crowley slowly looked up as he lifted their joined hands. “And this? What does this mean?”

“Whatever we want it to, my dear.” Aziraphale slid his hand around Crowley’s so their palms were pressed together and laced their fingers once more. “We’re on our side now. We make the rules.”

“Ah. Er. Yeah. Good. Good.” Crowley took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “That’s good.”

Aziraphale studied his flustered companion and made a decision. “Why don’t we take this somewhere private?” No one would overhear their conversation at the Ritz if they wanted to stay, but it would be easier—more comfortable—if they were in the bookshop or Crowley’s flat.

“Yes. That’s. For. _Yes_.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the bill was paid. As they left, Aziraphale found he didn’t even mind leaving half his dessert behind. 

Not even crêpes Suzette was as good as Crowley’s refusal to let go of his hand.

**St. James Park, London – Day 351 Post-Crowley (22 August 2019 – 11 Months, 28 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

St. James Park didn’t look any different.

Rationally, Aziraphale knew there wasn’t any reason it would. It had been less than a year since he and Crowley had met here to swap back after fooling Heaven and Hell, and parks were generally slow to change. Still, it felt wrong. This park had seen a good portion of Crowley and Aziraphale’s history. It should have been gloomier, less welcoming, now that—

Aziraphale pushed that thought out of his head. He was here to tell this plant about Crowley, not to wallow in could-have-beens. He’d tell the plant all about what they did here and the plant would perk up and Crowley would come back and everything would be just tickety-boo.

It had to be. 

He forced a smile as he hefted the plant in his arms. “Now, this is St. James Park. Crowley and I would meet here to… well, we weren’t supposed to be meeting at all, so we’d pretend we were just here to feed the ducks or that we’d just happened to sit on the same bench. That one over there, actually. I’ll just—” Aziraphale’s feet and mouth stopped simultaneously, as he noticed that the bench— _their bench—_ was occupied. “Oh.”

Aziraphale turned in a circle, clutching the plant closer to his chest as he tried to figure out what to do. Yes, there were other benches, but in the decades he’d been coming to St. James Park, he’d never seen that particular bench occupied by anyone other than Crowley. Though, of course, he knew other people likely used the bench all the time. The fact that a young couple occupied it today meant nothing.

It didn’t feel that way, however. Like the unchanged pleasant atmosphere of the park, it seemed one more way that the things Aziraphale had shared with Crowley had gone on without them. The world, it seemed, hadn’t noticed they were gone.

With a sigh, Aziraphale shifted the plant to his other arm. “Well, I suppose I won’t take you to that bench as that lovely couple is occupying it, but that doesn’t matter, does it? I brought you here to tell you about Crowley, not to show you a bench.” With great effort, he directed his steps toward the closest empty bench. “This one will do just as well.”

The plant’s leaves rustled a little, but Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was responding to his words or being blown by the slight breeze in the park. He patted the pot as he set it down on the bench. “There we go. Now. What should I tell you about Crowley?” He folded his hands in his lap as he settled in on the bench next to the plant. “He always beat me here, you know. I suspect he made sure our bench was empty too. I could distract them with a miracle, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem sporting for an angel to do that, even though I’m basically retired these days.”

He turned to look straight at the plant as its leaves rustled skeptically. “I know, I’ve been doing miracles right and left the past few days, but I don’t usually. You know, I haven’t done any for months before yesterday.”

It didn’t seem as though the plant believed him. Aziraphale didn’t know if he should be insulted—he was an _angel_ for Heaven’s sake; he didn’t lie[13]—or worried that he genuinely thought the plant was trying to communicate with him.[14]

Aziraphale pushed the thought out of his mind. “When we weren’t sitting on the bench, we’d stroll along the lake. Or stop to feed the ducks. I’d introduce you to them, but I’m afraid they’d mistake you for food, and that wouldn’t do at all.” He leaned down close to the plant and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, they’re a bit greedy, these days. I do worry what they’d do if humans stopped coming here to feed them, though I suppose I shouldn’t. There will be humans holding clandestine meetings under cover of feeding the ducks until the world ends—which won’t be for quite some time, thankfully. You’re quite lucky you missed _that_ whole fiasco last year.”

He straightened and folded his hands in his lap again, though he kept looking at the plant. A few people gave him an odd look as they passed by, but he ignored them, just as he ignored everyone who looked at him askance because of his old-fashioned clothes. “You know, Crowley and I didn’t know that feeding bread to the ducks was bad for them until young Master Warlock came home from school one day and told us! Imagine, an angel and a demon not knowing that bread was bad for ducks! We were there when God invented ducks. We should’ve known. Then again, She always was a bit ineffable.”

The word brought a bittersweet smile to Aziraphale’s lips. He’d always enjoyed teasing Crowley by calling Her decisions _ineffable_ , but without him around to grumble, it felt pretentious rather than fun. “Then again, we didn’t know whether ducks had ears or not originally. We’d never thought about it, at least.” He hated thinking about wherethat particular conversation had gone, but Crowley’s rambling about the ducks had been endearing.

“They do have ears, you know. I looked it up.” He’d looked up lots of things on ducks while trying not to think about Crowley ending his existence with Holy Water. “They’re little holes on their heads, like most birds. It really is fascinating, all the different designs the Almighty came up with. Most animals have ears that stick out from their heads. Well, not most animals. Insects don’t. Or fish. Or birds. Most mammals, I suppose, though not even all of them. I do wonder why not. The outer shells are quite useful for capturing sound. There must be other things to consider, though, or the Almighty wouldn’t have designed them that way.

Aziraphale broke off with a nervous chuckle as he realized he was rambling about ears to a _plant._ “Well!” He slapped his hands on his thighs as he tried to make himself sound relaxed and upbeat when he felt neither. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about ears, did I? I brought you here to tell you more about Crowley and show you… Oh! I’ll take you for a stroll along the lake. Crowley and I went around this lake the day after we dined at the Ritz. I’ll tell you about it while we walk and then we’ll pop into the British Museum Café before we head back to the shop. We’ll have been gone most of the day by then. Crowley might be back! Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

It appeared the plant had decided to live after all—its leaves were no longer wilting and the vibrant colors had returned to them—so Aziraphale had to be doing things right, which meant Crowley would be back very soon. He had to be. If Aziraphale just managed to stay patient long enough to take the plant for a stroll along the lake, he would return to the bookshop and find Crowley there, alive and well.

Right?

Aziraphale smiled nervously as he scooped up the plant and started walking around the lake with it. He got a lot more strange looks walking and talking to it than he had sitting next to it, but he ignored those just as he’d ignored the stares on the bus, at the bandstand, and at the Ritz. He had almost made it through the day. He could go one more place if it meant he got what he wanted.

**St. James Park, London – 27 August 2018 – 2 Days Post Failed Apocalypse**

“You’re early.”

Aziraphale smiled wide and bright as Crowley fell in step beside him. It rather ruined the effect of his raised eyebrow, but he didn’t care. He was far too happy to see Crowley even though they’d only been apart for eleven hours. “So are you.”

Crowley pulled a bag of chopped vegetables from the ether and handed it to Aziraphale after pulling a handful of peas and corn out. “Yes, but patience is a virtue.[15] What sort of demon would I be if I went around exhibiting virtues? That’s your job, angel.”

“As I understand it, you’re considered a rather poor demon, my dear.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the miracled food, but as Crowley had pointed out once the ducks likely couldn’t tell the difference and it was far better for them than bread. He threw a few pieces into the lake and watched as ducks started swimming over. “Besides, we’re on our own side now. You don’t have to eschew the virtues anymore.”

“Is that why you’re early? Deliberately _eschewing_ them now that you’re free to?”

Aziraphale _had_ habitually been good at exemplifying the virtues.[16] The idea of deliberately forgoing them held quite a bit of appeal, but that wasn’t what had brought him to St. James Park nearly an hour before their scheduled meeting time. “”No,” he said, stepping just a smidge closer to Crowley so their shoulders brushed whenever one of them moved. “I was anxious to see you.”

“Ngk.” Crowley dropped his handful of vegetables as he gaped at Aziraphale. “You, ah… How did….? I wasn’t, uh, supposed to be here yet. Why’d you come here instead of my flat?”

“I didn’t want to seem overeager to see you. I thought a change of scenery might make the time pass a bit faster and I came here so I’d be here when you arrived. You wouldn’t need to know how long I’d been here.” He tossed another handful of vegetables to the ducks and laughed ruefully. “I didn’t expect you to arrive an hour early.”

Crowley bumped his shoulder against Aziraphale’s as he laughed. “You _missed_ me.”

Aziraphale pushed his shoulders back and tugged his waistcoat down. “I did. Yesterday was lovely—not the trying-to-kill-us part, of course, but the rest of it—and I thought that… Well, I _hoped_ that we could pick up where we left off yesterday and see where things lead?” He slid his hand into Crowley’s and smiled hopefully.

Crowley stared at their joined hands for a moment, then looked up at Aziraphale. His eyes shone with wonder even through his glasses, and the smile on his face was soft and genuine. “Y-Yeah. Let’s uh. We could… walk?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. We should finish feeding the ducks first. Only…” Aziraphale held up the bag of vegetables he held in his right hand. “I don’t seem to have a free hand for these. I don’t suppose…?” He looked at Crowley with the expression that never failed to get the demon to act.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and smiled softly. “Allow me.”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale held out the bag and Crowley reached in and grabbed a handful of vegetables. “You know, I’ve always thought—”

“Don’t tell me I’m nice, angel.”

“I wasn’t going to say ‘nice’!” At Crowley’s raised eyebrow, Aziraphale sighed. “I was going to say you were lovely. Helpful. Sweet. And none of those are four letter words.”

“You know that doesn’t mean the word literally has four letters. It means it’s a nasty word. And to a demon, those are.”

“Well, you’re a rubbish demon. And you are lovely, helpful, and sweet. And _nice_. It’s why I lo… it’s why I’m so fond of you.”

Crowley dropped his free hand and a few peas fell to the grass. “Aziraphale, I—”

“ _HONK!”_

A goose ran up to them, gobbling the peas and corn on the ground faster than Aziraphale thought possible. The moment the vegetables on the ground were gone, the goose reared its head back and pecked at Crowley’s hand until he opened it and dropped the rest of the vegetables inside it.

“Oi!” Crowley pulled his hand back and shook it, then pulled his glasses down his nose and glared at the goose. “Don’t you bloody well know better?”

The goose stared straight into Crowley’s uncovered eyes. “HONK!”

“I don’t think it—” Aziraphale jumped back as the goose attacked his free hand, pecking at the vegetables through the bag. “Oh dear! It is a bit aggressive, isn’t it?”

“A bit?” Crowley pushed his glasses back up and snatched the vegetables from Aziraphale. “Here, you menace!” He dumped the vegetables right on the goose’s head. The goose hissed, then started gobbling the vegetables. Crowley tugged on Aziraphale’s hand. “Come _on_ , angel! It’s distracted!”

Aziraphale let himself be pulled along practically at a run until Crowley deemed they were a sufficient distance from the goose and slowed their pace. Immediately, Aziraphale stopped, tugging Crowley’s hand to stop him as well. “We didn’t have to. Go that fast. Did we? I need. A minute.”

“Did we need to go that fast? Yes, we bloody well needed to go that fast! I showed that… that _thing_ my real face, and it just stared at me!” Crowley glanced back at the goose eating their vegetables and gave a full-bodied shudder. “It wasn’t scared of me at all, Aziraphale!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale, who didn’t think Crowley was scary no matter what form he was in, took a minute to figure out why that was significant. “ _Oh_.” He took a small step away. “Perhaps we should…? Oh, no, it’s going back into the lake.”

“Thank… Somebody for that.” Crowley turned back to the path and started slowly walking along it. When they had gone far enough that human eyes wouldn’t be able to see the scattered remains of their vegetables, he said, “You know, I came here early for the same reason you did.”

“You…?” Aziraphale rolled his words around his head for a moment, remembering exactly what he’d said earlier. “You missed me too?”

“Always do when you’re not around.”

Aziraphale smiled so brightly he literally glowed for a moment before he noticed and toned it down. “Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do to prevent that, won’t we?”

**London Soho– Day 351 Post-Crowley (22 August 2019 – 11 Months, 28 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

Aziraphale walked slowly back to his shop, the plant clutched tightly to his chest. If he’d been human, the way the leaves hid his face would have been a problem, but at the moment, Aziraphale found it much easier to extend his senses than to face the crowds of people on the busy Soho street. Today had been exhausting, to put it mildly. After nearly a year of hiding in his bookshop without seeing anyone, interacting with people while he was out had made an already emotionally overwhelming day worse.

“Nearly there,” he said as he approached the corner opposite his bookshop. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or the plant. Perhaps both, as even this close he wasn’t sure he would make it back to the shop without a little encouragement. “And, perhaps, now that you’ve decided to stick around, Crowley will be back. He should at least be on his way. I’ve done everything I can think of to encourage him, so it would be rude of him not to come now. He wouldn’t do that.”

He peeked out from behind the plant’s leaves to be sure the street was clear, looking both ways numerous times. He never crossed anymore without triple-checking both for cars and humans not paying attention to them. When he was certain there wasn’t any danger, he hid his face behind the leaves again and scurried across the street.

The door to the bookshop was unlocked, as it had been since he’d warded the shop so humans wouldn’t notice it, but Aziraphale paused outside the door anyway. He hadn’t been gone for this long since Crowley had been killed— _discorporated,_ he was only discorporated and he would find a way to come back, he had to—and he was nervous about what he’d find inside. What if Crowley had come back while he was gone and needed assistance that Aziraphale hadn’t been around to give and had discorporated again? What if he’d come back while Aziraphale was out and thought that Aziraphale hadn’t missed him and had left? What if he’d figured out how to communicate with Aziraphale via the new computer Aziraphale had bought, but Aziraphale hadn’t been there to get the message?

What if he hadn’t made it back at all?

That thought was both the worst and the most likely. Still, Aziraphale held on to a sliver of hope that he’d find Crowley sprawled on his sofa, alive and well, right up until he opened the door. The moment he stepped inside he could tell the bookshop was empty and had been that way the entire time he was gone. If Crowley—or anyone else—had been here even for a moment, he would’ve been able to sense it. There was nothing, just an empty shop that was beginning to feel like a tomb and a growing hollowness in Aziraphale’s chest that threatened to consume him.

Slowly, Aziraphale carried the plant over to its spot and gently set it down. “He’s-He’s not here yet,” he told it, fighting back tears. He’d been so _certain_ that convincing the plant to stay alive would bring Crowley back. “I’m sure.” He swallowed a sob. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” He had to be. Otherwise, what had they stopped Armageddon for?

Aziraphale turned the plant slightly, stepped back to look at it, and turned it again, this time in the other direction He repeated the process several times until he was certain it was situated correctly, then he pulled out his handkerchief and carefully brushed away the dirt and detritus that had accumulated on the leaves while they were out. When the leaves were spotless, he picked tiny bits of debris out of the pot, then moved to his desk where the computer sat, powered on and ready for Crowley to take over the screen. He dusted it too, just as he had every day since he’d bought it. He didn’t want a spot to block something important if Crowley managed to contact him.

As the evening wore on, Aziraphale moved around the shop, picking up things that were out of place, carrying them with him only to set them down in another, equally incorrect, spot when he found something else not properly put away. He moved the first aid kit six times, never confident it was where he would need it to be if Crowley required that sort of assistance. It was still the metal box he’d gotten during the Second World War when he decided it would be a good idea to have a first aid kit on hand just in case an injured human happened by, but he’d upgraded the contents when he’d realized Crowley wasn’t going to get out of Hell easily. Finally, he’d simply set it on the floor by the sofa and gone to the kitchen to make a mug of cocoa.

The bell over the shop door rang just as the milk was reaching a boil. Aziraphale didn’t even bother to flick the stove off. With the shop warded against human notice, there was only a few beings it could be—Adam, a witch who knew the shop was there like Anathema, another angel, or…

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale froze in the middle of the room, drinking in the sight before him. Crowley leaned against the door frame, dressed in his usual clothes and looking none the worse for the wear. Maybe he’d convinced Hell to let him go without a fight. It was possible they were still scared of him after the Holy Water incident and hadn’t fought. Maybe the delay had just been paperwork. Bureaucracy moved slowly enough in Heaven. Aziraphale could only imagine how awful it was in Hell. He breathed a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it back.”

“Almost didn’t.” Crowley took a step forward and the relief Aziraphale had felt was yanked away like a tablecloth in a magician’s trick. The first step looked painful, the second worse, and it was only by the Grace of God (or, well, of _Somebody_ ) that Aziraphale reached Crowley as he fell to his knees.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled Crowley in close, supporting him as best he could. Crowley seemed to be doing his best snake impression despite being man-shaped, and sunk down to the floor despite Aziraphale’s efforts to keep him upright. He fluttered his hands over Crowley’s back as he tried to figure out where the demon was injured. “What hurts?”

“It’sssss a shorter lisssst if I tell you what doesn’t.” He lifted a hand to his sunglasses but only succeeded in pulling them down to the end of his nose before his hand fell back to the floor.

Aziraphale carefully pulled Crowley’s glasses off to reveal two blackened eyes. One of them was clouded over in a way that made it clear Crowley couldn’t see out of it. The hand that he’d tried to remove the glasses with had three fingers bent the wrong direction, and this close, Aziraphale could see dozens of tiny cuts on Crowley’s exposed skin.

His clothes were intact, free of blood and soot, but it looked like he’d put them on after he’d been injured. Tear tracks stained his face, and he kept blinking his good eye, not focusing on Aziraphale. “My little toe on-on…” he shifted a little, trying to bring his left foot forward, but ended up just flopping a hand in its general direction. “On thissss foot doesn’t hurt. And m’nose is okay, mosssstly.”

“I see that.” Aziraphale gently stroked the side of Crowley’s nose, using a small miracle to heal the bit of damage there and the break in Crowley’s cheekbone. The eye would require more focus than he had at the moment, and he wanted to fully assess the damage before he did too much healing. He didn’t want to attract demonic attention by using too many miracles either. “Let’s get you to the sofa and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Not ssssure I can get back up, angel.”

The hissing worried Aziraphale as much as the physical injuries. He could heal those given enough time, but Crowley only hissed while man-shaped if he couldn’t help it. He certainly had reason enough with his physical injuries, but the frequency made Aziraphale wonder if there wasn’t something deeper going on, something Aziraphale might not know how to heal.

He thought about lifting Crowley and carrying him over to the sofa, but the way Crowley winced when Aziraphale started lifting him put an end to that thought rather quickly. Instead, he pulled down power to move them both to the sofa as well as to lock the bookshop door and implement the wards that would keep everyone short of God out. He privately thought that just then, worried as he was, they might give even Her a bit of trouble.

“There. Now just let me…” Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand and fixed his broken fingers as well as the torn tendons in his wrist. Methodically, he moved up Crowley’s arm and over his body, healing every injury he could find. Crowley relaxed with each cut that was closed, each bone that was unbroken, each muscle that was knitted back together, so by the time Aziraphale had healed everything but his eye, he was practically asleep.

“Almost done, dear,” Aziraphale said, brushing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead so he could see the injury. “Look at me for a moment, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open. The left one focused on Aziraphale. “’S never too much trouble to look at you,” he said, though his eyelids were already drooping. “Missed looking at you.”

“And I missed looking at you, my dear.” Aziraphale passed his hand over Crowley’s right eye, focusing on restoring it. “I was worried Hell wouldn’t let you have another body, especially after they tried to kill you.”

Crowley laughed, though the sound could have made a funeral march sound upbeat. “The first thing they did was give me a new body. It’s more fun to torture me when I’m corporeal.”

A ball of ice formed in Aziraphale’s stomach. He’d had it wrong the whole time and what they’d done had been worse than he’d imagined. “Oh.” He felt like he should say more, but there wasn’t anything else _to_ say… or to do, except to finish healing Crowley’s eye. He focused on that, trying not to think on what might have caused it, and when he pulled his hand away, Crowley looked up at him with both eyes shining bright golden yellow in the dim light of the bookshop.

“Oh. That’s…” He took Aziraphale’s hand in his and brought it to his lips to kiss the knuckles. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale blinked. There hadn’t been a _should I say_ or _I suppose I should_ in front of those two words. He didn’t think he was ready to process what the lack meant, so he deflected instead. “I doubt anyone Below will be pleased I did that.”

“They’re _never_ pleased, angel. It’s part of being down there.”

“Yes, but—”

Crowley sat up—easily now that he was healed—and looked straight into Aziraphale’s eyes. “They don’t have any hold over me, angel. They’re too afraid to come after either of us. If I hadn’t been discorporated, they wouldn’t have been able to hurt me. And even at a disadvantage, I got away.”

“After almost a year! Crowley, you can’t—” Aziraphale swallowed, forced himself not to look down. “I couldn’t stand it if you were discorporated again. I spent a year not knowing if you’d ever be able to come back, if they’d caught on to our trick or if they’d come up with a different way to destroy you. And I… I had to watch you die. I can’t do that again.”

“You won’t have to.” Crowley brushed his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen there. “I won’t do something like that again. I’ll use a miracle, cross my heart.” He made the motion across his chest. “Is the girl all right?”

“That’s the last thing you asked me when—” He still couldn’t say it, not even with Crowley sitting in front of him, alive and well. “Yes. She was fine.” She hadn’t had a scratch on her and had sobbed in her mother’s arms as Crowley lay bleeding on the sidewalk and Aziraphale had watched, too afraid of attracting the wrong sort of attention to do anything useful.

**London Soho – Day 0 (5 September 2018 – 11 Days Post-Apocalypse)**

“You know, Adam restored my entire collection of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“Did he? I thought we drank all that the day after I delivered him. Well, handed him over.”

“There was still one bottle left, and I kept the case. They don’t make them like that anymore. They’re all _cardboard boxes_ now. I looked earlier to see what I had on hand for tonight and when I looked…” Aziraphale wiggled with pleasure, “It was full!”

Crowley laughed, a sharp crack of sound that somehow rang with love and joy. “Bold of you to assume I would come back to the bookshop with you tonight, angel.”

Aziraphale looked down at their joined hands an almost impossibly fond smile blossoming on his face. Even just two weeks ago he would’ve stammered something about how he would never assume, while hoping Crowley would pick up on his hint and join him somewhere they could be certain they weren’t being watched by anyone. Since then, they’d helped stop the end of the word, saved each other from certain death, and spent the past ten days exploring what they both wanted from their relationship. Instead of blushing and stuttering, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and said, “Bold of you to assume I was giving you a choice.”

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks, causing the woman behind them to curse as she power-walked around them. Aziraphale sent her a blessing for a better day out of habit as Crowley gaped. “You can’t just _do_ things like that, angel!”

“Why ever not? She didn’t have to be rude, but it seemed like she was having a bad day. Perhaps now she’ll be nicer to the next person who gets in her way.”

“No, not _that_. I am against you doing that on principle, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Then whatever did you mean?”

“I meant saying things like– like you weren’t giving me a– a choice about coming back to the shop. In the middle of the road!” Crowley gestured wildly with his free hand, though the one holding Aziraphale’s stayed perfectly still. “And– and using a _meme_ to do it!”

The fond feeling in Aziraphale’s chest grew with every word Crowley said until he felt near to bursting with the warmth of it. “I’m certain I have no idea what a _meme_ is, and we’re on the pavement, not the road. But I can most certainly imply I’m not giving you a choice, because I’m not.” There were things Aziraphale had been working up to saying. Well, one thing. It was on the tip of his tongue every time he looked at Crowley and had been threatening to escape all day, but he wanted things to be perfect the first time, so he’d bitten back those three words again and again.

Crowley sputtered as Aziraphale started walking again, leading them back to the bookshop. Focusing on getting through the crowds with minimal fuss almost kept him from thinking about how much he wanted to kiss Crowley. Almost. They hadn’t done that yet either, another thing Aziraphale planned on changing tonight. He’d put this off for too long. He was no longer going to let residual fear of retribution keep him from what he wanted most in the world. Heaven and Hell had no hold on either of them anymore, and it was past time Aziraphale started acting like it. Tonight he was going to commit, fully and unashamedly, to Crowley.

They were almost to the bookshop when Crowley slowed his steps and leaned in close. “What’s the rush, angel? No one’s after us. Right?”

“Oh! No.” Aziraphale consciously worked to slow his steps, only just realizing he’d been practically running in his eagerness to get back to the shop. “Sorry. I just… got focused on that glass of wine. Didn’t realize how fast I was going.”

“Well, it’s a lovely day. We should—”

A shriek cut them off. Aziraphale whirled toward the sound and saw a small girl crouched in the middle of the street and a car rounding the corner too fast to stop, even if the driver saw her. He reached up for the power to save her, but Crowley was faster, diving into the street like a striking snake and grabbing the girl. He whirled around, the child clutched to his chest, and everyone on the pavement stopped to watch as Aziraphale’s world crumbled.

Time slowed, seconds stretching out, and Aziraphale was caught in it, his limbs and his miracles slowing with it. Each blink was an eternity and between them he saw the most painful thing he’d witnessed in six thousand years.

Crowley’s legs twisted together as he turned.

He stumbled, started to fall.

The child Crowley had grabbed flew through the air toward Aziraphale.

Crowley hit the ground as Aziraphale’s arms closed around the girl.

The girl’s mother pulled her from Aziraphale’s arms even as Crowley rose to his knees. He gathered his feet under himself, pushing upward.

The car slammed into Crowley with a sickening crunch that echoed even past the screams echoing down the street.

Crowley flew through the air, more a ragdoll now than a man-shaped being.

Aziraphale screamed and moved, thinking only of getting to Crowley, of pulling down a miracle to make this okay again, but someone grabbed his arms, holding him in place.

Crowley hit the ground, limbs bent at unnatural angles, and the car sped off.

Time resumed its normal pace as Aziraphale shrugged off the hands that held him and rushed over. 

“Crowley!” He fell to his knees, already drawing on power to heal the demon, but he didn’t know where to start, didn’t know which injuries were life-threatening and which ones just looked bad, didn’t know which were hurting Crowley the most.

Crowley coughed, blood—the human blood that came with the body, thank Heaven, not his true blood—running from the corner of his mouth. “A-Angel.” His hand fumbled near Aziraphale’s knees and Aziraphale took it despite fearing any touch would hurt Crowley further. “Is the girl all– all right?”

Aziraphale spared a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm what he already knew. The girl was fine, frightened by what she’d just seen and clinging tightly to her mother, but physically fine. “Yes,” he managed past the terrible feeling in his throat, “You saved her.”

“Good.”

“No! You could’ve used a miracle. You could’ve—” He broke off as Crowley’s hand went limp in his. “Don’t you dare discorporate on me Crowley. The girl is fine and you will be too, I just need to—”

But it was too late. He could feel the moment Crowley was no longer in the body, no longer on Earth. The corpse before him was just a shell, and nothing he could do would bring Crowley back to it.

Emptiness like he’d never felt before blossomed in Aziraphale’s chest. It felt like he’d imagined Falling would feel when he’d worried about being punished for his actions on Earth. Only far worse because even in those nightmare scenarios he’d had Crowley to turn to. 

Now, he was utterly alone. 

He’d learned to live without God’s immediate presence in the six thousand years since She’d spoken to him, but he didn’t think he could ever learn to live without Crowley’s.

He didn’t think he wanted to. 

He knew there were things he had to take care of—too many people had seen Crowley get hit to pretend it hadn’t happened—but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but kneel there, clutching Crowley’s limp hand and sob as he silently tried to bargain with a God who no longer spoke to Her children.

**London Soho– Day 1 Of the Rest of Their Lives (23 August 2019 – 11 Months, 29 Days Post Failed Apocalypse)**

“You took a plant to the _Ritz_?” Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder and looked at him with raised eyebrows. His expression shifted between delighted and scandalized and finally settled on a mix of the two as he looked at Aziraphale. “And you just… had a meal. With it sitting on the table.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale tried to draw himself up—a difficult task with Crowley leaning against him—and settled for giving Crowley what would have been a haughty look if it hadn’t melted into fondness the moment he actually looked at Crowley. “It was dying! I thought I could convince it to live.”

“It’s a plant, angel. It doesn’t care about the Ritz.”

“I wasn’t convincing it with the _Ritz,_ Crowley.”

“Then what did you take it there for?”

“You! The plant is for you and I was telling it how you would do a much better job taking care of it than I had and I decided to tell it about you by taking it to places we used to go.” It seemed silly now that he was saying it out loud, but Crowley had come back so maybe it had done some good, even if it had just been the universe shaping itself to Aziraphale’s expectations.

Crowley’s expression softened and instead of making a snarky comment, he took Aziraphale’s hand in his. “So where is this—” He broke off, sniffing the air, his eyes wide. His tongue flicked out once, twice, then he jumped up and yanked Aziraphale to his feet so fast they both ended up in a heap on the floor.

“Crowley, what—”

“ _Fire_!” Crowley scrambled to untangle himself from Aziraphale, pushing and pulling and never letting go of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale tried to pull his hand free so they could get up and he could figure out what Crowley was talking about, but Crowley wouldn’t let go. The more Aziraphale pulled, the harder Crowley squeezed, until he was squeezing so tightly Aziraphale’s fingers might have broken had he been human. “Crowley!”

“There’s a fire! I smell-I smell smoke! We have to get _out!_ ”

Aziraphale looked around the shop. He couldn’t see any flames or smoke. “Crowley, I think you’re just—”

“There’s a fire. _Here_. Can’t you smell it?” Crowley finally managed to get his feet under him and pulled Aziraphale up. “We have to _go_.”

Aziraphale sniffed the air, trying to smell what Crowley did. The shop smelled like it usually did—leather and old paper—this time mixed with the coppery scent of the blood Crowley had dripped earlier and the sulfur-rotten scent of Hell that clung to Crowley. He was about to say that perhaps Crowley was smelling those remnants on himself when another scent hit his nose, this one so strong he could hardly believe he hadn’t smelled it earlier. It wasn’t burning paper, though, or wood, it was… metallic and also somehow sour, like…

“Oh!” Aziraphale changed course immediately, tugging Crowley toward the kitchenette. “My cocoa! I forgot I was making some when you arrived!” He looked at the saucepan, thought it wasn’t so far gone that it couldn’t be saved, then saw the terror still in Crowley’s eyes and simply miracled it straight to the dump, smell and all. The saucepan wasn’t worth seeing that look in Crowley’s eyes for even a second longer.

He flicked off the burner and opened a window to air out the kitchenette even though he’d miracled the smell away. “There. All better.”

“Yeah. Better,” Crowley said weakly even as he staggered back a step. He winced as his back hit the wall, then slid down it to the floor without letting go of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale crouched in front of Crowley, trying to subtly check him for any remaining injuries. He hadn’t hit the wall hard, there was no reason he should’ve winced unless he was still injured. There was nothing immediately apparent to him, though Crowley’s back was against the wall, which left only one way to find out. “Did I miss an injury on your back?”

Crowley shook his head, though his eyes remained locked on Aziraphale. “My back’s fine.” He withstood Aziraphale’s questioning stare for several seconds before he sighed and slumped down a little further. “My wings,” he muttered. 

_Oh_. 

Aziraphale hadn’t even thought about Crowley’s wings. It would make sense for Hell to hurt him there—they were sensitive and vulnerable and Crowley had once told him that demons took pride in maintaining their wings’ appearance. They would also hurt if they were injured even if they weren’t on this plane. He cursed his own carelessness. He should never have forgotten them.

“You should have said something,” he chided gently as he carefully turned the wrist Crowley was gripping so he could grip Crowley’s arm in return. He took Crowley’s free hand with his and tugged him to his feet. “Let me see.”

Crowley looked around the small kitchenette. “No room in here. And I can’t—”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and snapped his fingers. The bookshop windows darkened, blocking their view of the street and stopping anyone outside from seeing in. “There’s plenty of room out here.” He guided Crowley back to the main part of the bookshop and snapped his fingers again, moving a table out of the way and setting up a veritable nest of pillows and blankets on the freshly cleared floor. He led Crowley to it, urged him to stretch out in it, and settled in next to the demon. “Out with them.”

Crowley’s wings sprang into the physical plane fully extended, their tips brushing at tables and bookcases that did the only sensible thing and moved out of the way. Aziraphale could see the injuries—open wounds, broken bones, and missing feathers—and he couldn’t imagine why Crowley hadn’t said anything earlier. This had to be agonizing.

Carefully, Aziraphale brushed a gentle finger over the base of Crowley’s right wing. Crowley flinched, his wing knocking against a table that hadn’t moved far enough away, then relaxed as Aziraphale started healing the damage. He regrew bone, knit flesh and muscle back together, and encouraged feathers to grow faster, and slowly Crowley’s wings started to look like they were meant to. It took almost as long—and almost as much energy—to heal his wings as it had taken to heal his other injuries the night before, but Aziraphale didn’t even think about stopping until every injury, down to the tiniest splinter, had been healed.

When his work was complete, Aziraphale stroked one finger along the edge of Crowley’s wing. The demon didn’t stir, his eyes closed, his limbs relaxed, and his breathing deep and even. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, savoring the fact that he could, that Crowley was back and here and whole. Then, he dared to do something he’d wanted to do for a long time but had always lacked the courage to ask.

Slowly and carefully, so as not to wake Crowley, Aziraphale started restoring Crowley’s wings to their usual pristine state. A minor miracle removed the blood, but Aziraphale straightened the feathers manually, running his fingers down each shaft, aligning the barbs, resettling any that had been moved out of place. He’d finished one wing and was starting on the other when Crowley stirred. Aziraphale jerked his hands back and pressed them to his chest as though he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Crowley turned his head toward Aziraphale and opened one eye. “Why’d you stop? Something wrong?”

Aziraphale tried to smile, but all that came was the fake, nervous one he so rarely used around Crowley. “No. Well, possibly. I hadn’t asked and it was a bit presumptuous of me to just groom you, wasn’t it? I didn’t know if you were comfortable with the idea.”

“Angel.” Crowley rolled onto his side and looked Aziraphale straight in the eyes. “I was comfortable with you healing them. _Of course_ I’m comfortable with you grooming them.” He twisted to look at the one Aziraphale hadn’t groomed, still stretched out on the bookshop floor, and arched one eyebrow. “It’s a disaster. I’d let _Hastur_ help at this point if I wasn’t convinced he’d stab me in the back instead.”

It wasn’t very comforting to be compared to Hastur, but Aziraphale wasn’t capable of denying Crowley anything at this point, so he buried his fingers in the feathers of Crowley’s ungroomed wing and set about making it right. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like.” He made it a command, not a question, though he knew that Crowley would only obey if he wanted to.

“You couldn’t possibly, Angel.” Crowley grumbled when Aziraphale stilled his fingers and gave him a _look_ that made it clear he wouldn’t proceed until Crowley agreed. “All right. On the off chance that you manage to hurt me while _grooming my wings_ , I’ll tell you.”

Aziraphale took longer with this wing, savoring the feeling of being allowed to touch, of Crowley’s warm skin beneath his fingers, of Crowley’s silky feathers as he straightened them out. He touched each one, lifting Crowley’s wing to access the ones on the front, and ended by running his hand down Crowley’s spine between his wings, smoothing the downy feathers there.

Crowley didn’t stir, so with a soft smile, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s wing and crawled underneath it, curling up next to the demon. He looked peaceful in his sleep, the trauma of both the burning cocoa and his year in Hell put to rest for the moment. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead and Aziraphale brushed it back, running his fingers through the soft copper strands and marveling that he had permission to touch Crowley this way.

The things that Aziraphale had wanted to say the day Crowley discorporated slipped back into his mind, and he smiled as he thought about saying those words to Crowley when he woke up, about kissing him, about finally having caught up to Crowley and being ready to tell Crowley exactly what he meant to Aziraphale, about what he hoped they meant to each other. This was what they had stopped Armageddon for. Yes, they’d stopped it[17] for the clever humans and the wonderful world that they had built up, but also for this, for the ability to simply enjoy each other’s presence without fear of retribution or worrying about what they might be required to do next.

Just the ability to lie here peacefully with Crowley while he slept was new and good and Aziraphale intended to treasure every second of it. Yes, he wanted to tell Crowley how he felt, wanted to kiss him and show him how cherished he was, but he cherished this, too. He felt at peace here and now in a way he hadn’t since Crowley discorporated. He could wait, revelling in this moment, for as long as it took for Crowley to wake up.

It didn’t take long. The grandfather clock had only chimed once before Crowley opened his eyes, blinked once, and smiled at Aziraphale. “Done already?”

Aziraphale huffed. “It’s been two hours, my dear.”

“Oh.” Crowley squirmed a little, put his wings away, and turned onto his side so he was fully facing Aziraphale. “I didn’t ruin your plans for the day, did I?”

“Far from it.” Aziraphale scooted closer, slipping an arm around Crowley’s shoulders as he pressed their foreheads together. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“Well, yeah, but you could’ve been reading or…” Crowley looked around, clearly searching for something else Aziraphale enjoyed doing. “Eating or doing your taxes or…”

“I’d rather be here. With you.” Aziraphale sat up, pulling Crowley up with him, and took both Crowley’s hands in his. “I’ve wanted nothing else for the last year. That day… I had planned, well, hoped… thought I might tell you… when we got back to the shop, that is—”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted, “whatever it is you’re trying to say, just say it. I won’t be upset.”

That wasn’t what Aziraphale feared, but he gathered his courage and used the encouragement anyway. “I love you. Not– Not like I love everyone, not an _all creatures great and small_ sort of love, but you, specifically, more than any other being in this universe or any other, more than books and crepes and fine red wine. I love you like– like the humans love the people they marry, the ones where it really works out, except without all the… bits that can lead to more humans.” He winced a little at the awkward phrasing, but pushed on, determined not to let Crowley interrupt him until he’d gotten this all out.

“I spent the past year doing practically nothing because none of the things I enjoy were at all enjoyable without you there to enjoy them with me or to tease me about how ridiculous I am. I want to go to the Ritz with you and hold your hand as we walk through the park and go on rides in your car while you drive far too fast and… and I’d very much like to kiss you now, if that’s all right with you.”

“Ngk.” Crowley’s eyes widened, his slit pupils dilating until they looked almost round. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times, myriad emotions flashing across his face too fast for Aziraphale to read them. He was starting to think he’d misjudged, that he’d taken too long and Crowley had moved on, or that he’d somehow misjudged Crowley’s feelings entirely. Then Crowley stretched out one trembling hand and brushed it against Aziraphale’s cheek with the reverence of a historian who had just found the lost text that proved her theory. Crowley’s expression settled into something gentle and soft and the barest hint of a smile curled his lips as he breathed out, “Please.”

Aziraphale closed the distance between them, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s as he slid his fingers into Crowley’s hair, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together. The kiss was chaste and short, but no sooner had Aziraphale pulled back than Crowley surged forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that was far less so. Aziraphale gave himself over to it, his eyes fluttering closed as Crowley’s tongue slid into his mouth and his world changed. Aziraphale was no stranger to kisses, though it had been quite some time since he’d been kissed so passionately and it had never felt like _this_.

Kissing Crowley was like being handed everything he’d ever dreamed of by the Almighty Herself. His skin tingled everywhere Crowley touched and warmth like he hadn’t felt since basking directly in the Almighty’s Grace filled him. Aziraphale lost himself in the kiss, the worry and stress that had been his constant companions since the moment Crowley discorporated melting away. It was a kiss that, as William Goldman had said, left all others behind.[18] When they finally broke apart, Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s and grinned. “I love you.”

“Gah. You can’t just _say_ that.”

“Why not? It’s true, and no one Above or Below cares what we do anymore. I could shout it from the rooftop if I wanted.” Aziraphale’s grin turned mischievous as he stood. “Perhaps I will.”

“No, that’s not—” Crowley stood as well. “I didn’t—” He pulled Aziraphale into an embrace, buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I love you, too.”

Aziraphale had been wrong earlier. _This_ feeling was like basking in the Almighty’s Grace. Perhaps, he thought blasphemously, even better. He’d known Crowley loved him, of course—it was impossible to miss—but to hear it was indescribably better than just knowing it. Aziraphale could comb through every word in every language that ever had or would be used and he still wouldn’t find a word sufficient to describe precisely how marvelous the feeling was.

He wanted to try, though. He wanted to spend hours and days trying to tell Crowley how wonderful this was, how glad he was that Crowley was back, how much he loved him. He wanted to stop time, to stay in this moment savoring this feeling for as long as possible, but there was a whole world outside the bookshop they’d helped save and hadn’t had time to enjoy. Now that Crowley was back, they were free to explore whatever parts of it they wished without worrying about Heaven or Hell interfering. They could relive old memories by visiting the places they’d already been and create new memories by visiting the places they’d always wanted to go. They could spread blessings or cause mischief or ignore humanity altogether and simply focus on their relationship. The choice was theirs and for the first time in nearly a year, Aziraphale didn’t find the idea overwhelming.

He kissed Crowley again, just because he could, and marveled at how right it felt. Then Crowley deepened the kiss and Aziraphale forgot how to think at all. “You,” he said with a smile when they finally[19] broke apart again, “are far too tempting.”

“I’m a demon. Tempting is what I do.”

“You’re a menace. You don’t need to tempt me. I’m already yours.” As Crowley gaped, Aziraphale took his hand and leaned in close. “Though, I suppose it _could_ be fun, every now and then.”

Crowley made several noises that only vaguely resembled words in any language before finally settling on, “Now who’s tempting?”

“Well, isn’t the saying _all’s fair in love and war_?” Aziraphale started leading Crowley toward the back room. A quick gesture restored everything that had been moved to its proper place. A second reversed the blackout he’d put on the shop windows, letting sunlight stream in through them again.

“Is it?” Crowley raised his eyebrows and looked at Aziraphale with a mixture of amusement and adoration. “And which one is this?”

“Love, of course.” Aziraphale stopped in front of the plant and gestured awkwardly at it. He hadn’t really thought through the part where he gave it to Crowley. It seemed silly to pick it up and hand it to him, especially since he would have to put it down if he was going to stay. It was far too big to hold comfortably. “This is, uh, for you. It’s, well, it’s the plant. _The_ plant, that is.”

“The one you took to the Ritz?” Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets as he circled the plant, peering at it from several different angles, rather defeating the work Aziraphale had done the previous evening making sure it was situated just so.

Aziraphale folded his hands together, trying to pretend he didn’t miss the warmth of Crowley’s hand in his. “And St. James Park, yes.” He shifted worriedly, and tried to peer at the plant without looking like he was. “I do hope it didn’t damage it. It’s looking much better than it had been, but yesterday morning I was certain it had given up.”

“Looks fine to me.” Crowley looked at the plant as though it were a misbehaving teenager. “And it’ll stay that way, _if it knows what’s good for it._ ”

“Oh, I had hoped you wouldn’t threaten this one,” Aziraphale fretted. “It’s had a bit of a hard time. It really should have died with how I neglected it,[20] the poor thing.”

Crowley sighed dramatically as he perched on the arm of the sofa. “Fine, I won’t terrorize it. But it had better not tell tales when I get new plants or it’s coming straight back here where you’ll neglect it again.”

“I would never!” Crowley pointedly raised his eyebrow and Aziraphale squirmed under his piercing gaze. “All right, I might, but it wouldn’t be intentional. Why would you get new plants, anyway?”

“Angel, my plants knew better than to disappoint me, but it’s been a year. I can hardly expect they’ve survived.”

“Oh, but they have! I made sure of it.”

Crowley looked between the plant and Aziraphale, a dubious expression on his face. “Please tell me you haven’t been spoiling them.”

“What? Oh, no. I couldn’t– Your flat felt too much like a mausoleum. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back regularly. I put them in stasis. We’ll just have to pop them out and they’ll be fine!”

“ _Pop them out_?”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale shifted from foot to foot, not sure what to do with himself now. He wanted to sit with Crowley like old times, except with more touching and possibly some kissing, but it would be awkward to sit next to Crowley while he was on the arm of the sofa. He probably wanted to go home anyway, to check and make sure Aziraphale hadn’t harmed any of the plants in his effort to keep them alive and to get some space after a year spent amongst the crowds of Hell. “I could come with you, if you want. Help wake them up.”

“Is that what you want to do? Go back to my flat and deal with my plants?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s smile felt brittle, but if it would get him more time with Crowley, he’d happily go back to Mayfair, or anywhere else in the universe.

“Because I would like to stay here,” Crowley said as though Aziraphale hadn’t responded. “Perhaps, have that Châteauneuf-du-Pape you promised me?”

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s gaze to the bottle of wine and the glasses that had been sitting, untouched, for the last year. “Oh! Yes, of course.” He brightened immediately. Crowley wanted to stay! He wasn’t going to have to sit alone again and try to remember that Crowley was back. At least, not just yet.

He hurried over to the wine, then paused, his hand inches from the bottle. “I’m afraid this bottle has probably gone off. I opened it to let it breathe before we went out that day and, well.” He wrung his hands together as he stared at the bottle. “I’ll just go get another, shall I?”

Crowley snapped his fingers vaguely in the direction of the bottle. “That one’s fine, angel.”

“Oh. Oh, _thank you_.” Aziraphale poured two glasses and when he turned to give Crowley his, he found the demon was sitting properly[21] on the sofa with room on his right for Aziraphale. The invitation was clear and Aziraphale took it without hesitation. As he sat, it felt like the world slipped back into its proper place, the annoying itch of something wrong finally soothed away.

“I miracled the Bentley into storage,” he said as he settled in, “I have all the information written down. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.”

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale and took his hand. “I don’t know why you think I’m going anywhere without you, angel. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I merely thought you would like a little space. Hell struck me as very, ah, _crowded_ when I was down there.”

“I don’t want to wade into a crowd at the theater or anything, but I also don’t want to be alone.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “I missed you too, while I was Below.”

“Oh. Well. All right.” Aziraphale wiggled happily and held up his glass. “To the world?”

“No.” Crowley leaned in and kissed Aziraphale. When he pulled back, there was a soft smile on his lips. “To _us_.”

It was a good thing they were in the back part of the shop, because Aziraphale was fairly certain he was literally glowing. He matched Crowley’s smile and clinked their glasses together. “To us.”

* * *

[1] Which had a register equally surprised to find extra money inside exactly totally the price of the book. [Return to text]

[2] He hoped. He _really_ wasn’t up to dealing with that after the week he’d had. [Return to text]

[3] Out of sheer terror, mainly. [Return to text]

[4] It was still warm, as neither the cocoa nor the mug could bear to disappoint Aziraphale. [Return to text]

[5] Still half full. See above. [Return to text]

[6] It could. [Return to text]

[7] Primarily because their rule about “clear, informed and professional pricing of all material” meant he would have to actually sell his books to anyone who could afford them but also because the ABA had been around for over 100 years and they would’ve noticed he wasn’t growing older by now. [Return to text]

[8] This was unequivocally false. Picking up where they’d left off mattered a great deal to Aziraphale. Crowley getting out of Hell was the most important part, obviously, but Aziraphale would be devastated if Crowley was no longer interested in resuming their slow fumble toward something other than friends. [Return to text]

[9] As in imaginative, unrealistic, and the stuff of Crowley’s fantasies, _not_ as in superb. Aziraphale was happy to let Reginald believe otherwise, however. [Return to text]

[10] But not terrified. [Return to text]

[11] Never mind that Crowley was Below. Angels—even estranged ones—only got signs from above, and She would know Crowley’s state regardless. Right? [Return to text]

[12] _Not_ heavenly.[Return to text]

[13] Except, apparently, to himself. Unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed that quite yet, and thus believed every word he was saying. After all, he couldn’t fool himself by implying or dancing around the truth or leaving things out—all tactics he employed quite well with others so he could avoid lying while getting them to believe something false. [Return to text]

[14] It was. Like most things in Aziraphale’s life, it couldn’t bear to see the angel upset and had thus already decided it was going to do its best to live until this Crowley came back. And then it was going to have _words_ with this Crowley about making the angel sad. [Return to text]

[15] But not a _Virtue_. Aziraphale understood the etymology, of course, but it amused him to think of an entire choir of angels wandering around Heaven with Puritan names like Prudence, Temperance, and Charity. [Return to text]

[16] Except temperance. He had always been rather rubbish at temperance. [Return to text]

[17] Well, helped anyway. Probably provided encouragement. They’d definitely been there. And they’d given Adam a pep talk. That counted for something. [Return to text]

[18] “There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C...(before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy.... Well, this one left them all behind.” The Princess Bride by William Goldman. [Return to text]

[19] Aziraphale was rather accustomed to breathing, but he was finding there were definite advantages to not needing to. [Return to text]

[20] Indeed, if it had been living anywhere else, it would have died long before Aziraphale noticed it needed attention. However, that hadn’t occurred to Aziraphale until just now and the plant, like everything else in the bookshop, had developed a deep desire to please the angel, so it had survived. [Return to text]

[21] Well, on the cushion, anyway. His sprawl wasn’t precisely the _proper_ way to sit. [Return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious: _[Stromanthe sanguinea](https://wimastergardener.org/article/stromanthe-sanguinea-tricolor/)_.


End file.
